


A Little Folding of the Hands

by Celebratory Penguin (cpenguing)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Aging, Friendship, Gen, Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-09 04:28:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11661624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cpenguing/pseuds/Celebratory%20Penguin
Summary: Six stories about hands, men, friendship, love, death, and everything in between.





	1. 1957

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Beatles story in five movements and a coda. The installments will be as follows:
> 
> 1\. 1957: George, Paul, and Louise Harrison  
> 2\. 1962: John, George, and Astrid Kirchherr  
> 3\. 1976: John and Paul  
> 4\. 1995: Paul, George, and Ringo  
> 5\. 2002: Paul and Ringo  
> Coda, 2030: Paul
> 
>  
> 
> Many thanks to HeyJudeKitten for pointing out the horrific date screwup before TOO many people saw it. *G*
> 
> Note about this story: Louise Harrison has been my spirit animal since I heard about her inviting George's poor bedraggled fans into the house for a cup of tea.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

"A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to rest."  
\--Proverbs 6:10

Young Paul and George, and Louise Harrison.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

1957

One thing Louise could be certain of was that she'd be hearing music at her home before she even put her key in the lock.

George was mad for his guitar, cheap, sad little thing that it was, and for a long time the whole Harrison family had worried because George would spend days on end alone in his room, practicing until his poor fingers were worn raw.

Then he'd met Jim McCartney's oldest and the two boys couldn't have been more alike if they were peas in a pod. Always practicing, always trying to one-up each other, and becoming - if Louise said so herself, which she did - quite good at their music.

Today, she was surprised not to hear anything when she brought the shopping in. Paul's bicycle was leaning against a tree, so she knew the boys were together, but why was the house so still? Had they worked so hard they'd just nodded off? It wouldn't be the first time, Louise thought as she tiptoed up the stairs.

She tapped lightly on the bedroom door, then walked in to find both boys sound asleep. George lay on his back atop top the clean bedspread; Paul was curled up in a chair next to the bed, his arms looped around his shins. When Louise came closer, she noticed gauze bandages wrapped around the fingers of George's left hand.

"What in the world?" she whispered, leaning over to get a closer look. Sure enough, each fingertip was tidily bandaged. A spot of iodine stained the gauze on George's index finger. Louise leaned over her son and kissed him lightly on his warm forehead. He stirred but didn't wake, just nestled further into his pillow.

Louise turned to Paul. Her kindly heart ached to see how much he had grown in the months since his mother's passing, how his jeans hung a bit loosely on his slimming frame, how far his wrists were sticking out of his jacket. She shook her head. She always felt such pity for the McCartney boys, poor motherless lambs, raised by a kind father who meant well but was such a bloke when all's said and done. A boy needed his mum, but the world wasn't a fair place, that's for sure.

As if he could hear Louise's thoughts, Paul opened his eyes, blinking hard in the confusion of a sudden awakening in a strange place. He struggled to sit up - Louise suspected he'd been in that position for hours - and immediately cast an anxious glance at the bed. "Is he running a fever? Is his finger infected?" Paul asked breathlessly.

"He's resting," Louise said softly. "It's all right, Paul, he's fine, you did a wonderful job patching him up."

Paul blushed, but his wide-eyed gaze stayed on Louise as he whispered, "I do this for our Mike all the time." He paused, swallowing hard. "My mum was a nurse."

Louise heard how Paul's voice, stuck in that aching place between soprano and tenor, cracked a bit at the past tense. "Well, she'd be so proud of you today, I can tell you that. Now, up with you." She held her hand out to Paul and pulled him out of the chair. "Let's have the jacket, please. I'll let the sleeves out while you have a kip in Peter's bed." 

Looking doubtful as he removed his jacket and handed it to Louise, Paul said, "My dad'll be expecting me home soon."

"He won't, not when I call him and say you've worn yourself out with worry. Now get into that bed, young man, and not another peep out of you until teatime."

Paul toed his shoes off before climbing into the twin bed opposite George's. Louise noted the state of his socks and tutted, but decided to leave that for another visit. She carefully tucked a blanket around Paul, who looked up at her with so much mother-hunger in his sad eyes that she sat down next to him and drew him into her arms. Paul hugged her tightly as she held on to him, rocking him back and forth, telling him what a good boy he was, what a good son, what a good friend, while ignoring the hot tears that dampened her shoulder. 

When Paul's tears were spent, he lay back on the bed and covered his red, swollen eyes with his right arm. Louise cleared her throat, then took Paul's hand in hers. She opened the fingers, examining the nascent calluses and the ragged, bitten nails. "I used to do this with the children, when they were younger," she said softly as she pulled Paul's hand to her lips and gave the palm a gentle kiss. She folded his fingers again and whispered, "Keep it tight throughout the night."

Letting his fist drop to his chest, Paul nodded and turned his cheek into the pillow. Louise stroked the unkempt black hair for a moment, then went to check on George.

Compared to her other children, her youngest son, this long-legged, fine-boned colt of a boy, often seemed like a changeling to her. Louise wondered if Jim McCartney felt the same way about his Paul: if he knew, as she did, that both of these boys were destined for something far beyond the boundaries of working-class Liverpool.

Satisifed that George's face was cooler and he was sleeping peacefully, Louise gave his forehead a gentle kiss before walking to the doorway. She paused with her hand on the light switch, drinking in the sight of the two budding artists as they slept. Perhaps they would have happy dreams, perhaps they would even share the same dream where they drew energy from one another as their music swirled around them, enveloping the whole world in its charm.

She smiled at the mental image while shaking her head at her own lofty ambitions. All she really wanted was for them to be healthy and happy. As she turned out the light, Louise whispered a quiet, heartfelt prayer to Saint Cecilia to look after her beloved boys.

***  
END  
***


	2. 1962

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George knew, of course, what death was. It was something that happened to grandparents and soldiers, or in twin twists of cruel fate, to your mate's mum.
> 
> George and John, visiting Astrid after Stuart's death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by these photos Astrid took when John and George visited her.  
> John: http://silverkgallery.com.au/rock-n-roll-photography/wp-content/uploads/John-Attic.jpg  
> John and George: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/b8/dd/95/b8dd95d7f95f200aada45f3e5ede158b--film-photography-astrid-kirchherr.jpg  
> George and John: http://www.artnet.com/WebServices/images/ll89177lld3XMJFgbQQ82CfDrCWvaHBOcCE0E/astrid-kirchherr-beatles---astrid-kirchherr-signed-photograph-of-john-lennon-and-george-harrison-(1962).jpg

1962

***

It seemed impossible.

George knew, of course, what death was. It was something that happened to grandparents and soldiers, or in twin twists of cruel fate, to your mate's mum. Not to someone he knew as an equal.

Not to Stuart.

"Christ, he wasn't even twenty-two."

It wasn't the first time John had said that in the days since they had arrived back in Hamburg and received the terrible news, but George shuddered every time he heard John's raspy voice saying the words. To make matters worse, John was saying them to Astrid as he perched on the arm of her sofa.

"I know, John, I know," she said soothingly, patting him on the arm. She had invited them in, hugged them warmly, offered them strong coffee. She was consoling them.

George struggled to wrap his mind around it.

Astrid's face was pale, her eyes ringed with dark circles just as John's were. She was dressed in black from head to foot, just as John was. They were both mourners. George assumed that John would be more accustomed to grief while Astrid's misery would be more acute, but it seemed to be the other way around.

This visit had been a sudden impluse of John's, announced over a quiet breakfast. Brian had never met Stuart, and Ringo had only marginally known him, so they hadn't been expected to follow along. Paul, whose relationship with Stuart had been frosty at best - and George wasn't willing to hazard a guess about exactly why - had quietly requested that John "send his love" but didn't get out of his seat. After a morose silence fell on the group, George stood up and grabbed his jacket without a word of explanation. He accompanied John partly because he wanted to offer condolences to Astrid, but mostly because he was worried about what John might do in this state of mind.

It wasn't like any condolence call George had ever known. They didn't talk about Stuart, didn't trade stories, just sat and sipped their coffee as the afternoon sun warmed their faces. Out of the blue, John asked to see the garret where Stuart had been painting only days before. Astrid took John by the hand and led him up the stairs, George following on their heels. There was too much light streaming through the windows, making the dust motes sparkle through the faint, lingering haze of cigarette smoke.

Astrid stepped back and let John wander through the disordered, chaotic room full of art that would never be completed. George couldn't swear to the quality of the paintings. His preferences ran to John's art, as it did to John's music and nearly everything else about the man, but he had to admit that there was a certain raw energy in the clusters of colors. 

John stood in pensive silence, his body utterly still. Even his hands, which were always fiddling with pencils, cigarettes, guitars, or girls, were limply clasped and motionless. George had never seen John so immobile. It was disconcerting.

He heard the faint click of a camera shutter and the sound of the film advance lever being cocked. From the corner of his eye he saw Astrid looking down the viewfiender of her ever-present Leica. She was photographing John as he mourned Stuart.

Christ, artists were weird.

John turned toward the camera, unsmiling, as Astrid took another photo. She pulled a chair up behind him and gently pressed his shoulders down. Unthinking, obedient, John slumped into the seat. He held his right hand loosely in his left and stared off into an empty corner. George couldn't fathom what John might be seeing, since he was half-blind without his glasses even when his eyes weren't dangerously full of tears. John made no movements when Astrid's camera clicked again in the heavy silence of the attic.

This time, George understood why Astrid wanted to capture this moment. Caustic, sarcastic, witty John had never seemed so vulnerable, so fragile. Suddenly nervous, George pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and opened his lighter. The smoke calmed George's anxiety somewhat, covering as it did the smells he would forever associate with Stuart: Jalousies and turpentine. He fleetingly wondered if Astrid would object but she smiled wistfully at him and motioned for him to stand behind John.

George stood directly behind the chair at first, then Astrid directed him to stand slightly off to the side. He wasn't sure if being in John's peripheral vision was the best thing to do, but John was a million miles away. George inched a little closer. He was startled to realize that John wasn't still after all, but trembling very slightly, struggling to control himself.

Carefully, George inched his hand along the back of the chair until it very lightly pressed against John's spine. Touching John Lennon was usually something one did at one's own peril, but George's desire to keep John sane was stronger than his instinct for self-preservation.

Astrid took a single photo at the moment George followed along John's line of sight. There was a footprint in the dust, a lonely reminder of the young man who had stood there. George was remembering Stuart in a series of mental snapshots when Astrid took a couple of steps closer until she was able to reach out and stroke John's hair. "He loved you, you know."

"Yeah," John said, almost choking on the word. He cleared his throat, then repeated, "Yeah." Rousing himself, he stood up and stretched, bumping his back against George's. It was as close to thanks as George was likely to get, so he let John rest there.

Astrid took another picture.

"I'm knackered," John said, scrubbing his hands over his face as if to rearrange his features. "We've got a show tonight, so we'd better..." 

"Of course." Astrid walked them back downstairs. John gave her an awkward hug and then darted in the general direction of the Star Club, leaving George behind. He felt Astrid's hands grasp his, and he looked down to find her peering up into his face. Her eyes were haunted.

"You understand now. Life, and death." It wasn't a question, and George nodded because she was right. He wouldn't be able to put it into words, not yet, but he would muse on the ephemeral nature of life during the long walk back, during their sets at the Star Club, and into the night in the little room he shared with his friends.

 

***  
END  
***


	3. 1976

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Fuck, Paul, we couldn't have a more complicated communication system if we used fucking smoke signals."
> 
> John, Paul, and a transatlantic phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paul's dad died just before the beginning of Wings' tour, which was in March of 1976. John's last in-person meeting with Paul happened two months later. And I'm still sad about that.

1976

***

"Please hold for Mr. McCartney."

Those were the last words John wanted to hear. He prowled around his kitchen like a caged jaguar, tugging at the shaggy hair at his nape.

As if this hadn't been fucking hard enough, swallowing his pride to Do The Right Thing and track down Mr. Wings-At-The-Speed-Of-Sound, now he was on fucking hold?

"Come ON," John muttered into the phone. His bare feet slapped against the cold kitchen tile. Tea, there needed to be tea and lots of it, so he tucked the phone under one ear and fiddled with the tea canister. His hands were shaky with nerves and his fingers slipped on the lid, which popped off at the perfect angle to spray loose tea leaves all over the counter, the floor, and a very surprised cat. "Shit! Shit!"

It was, because that was how things always went for him, the precise moment at which Paul's world-weary voice crackled over the line. "Hello?"

"Shit!"

"Nice to hear your voice, too."

"No, not shit to talk to you, shit to spill the tea. Is tea bad for cats?" John asked as he swatted a dish towel at the leaves clinging to the disgruntled cat.

There was a moment of silence, then Paul spoke again. "Did you really call me in the middle of the night to ask a veterinary question? 'Cause I'm really only good for sheep. And dogs."

Wait, that had to be wrong. "Middle of the night?"

"It's..." John heard Paul fumbling around, probably to find his watch. "It's almost two in the morning here."

"In Texas? I thought you were two hours earlier."

"John, I'm in Copenhagen."

"There's a Copenhagen, Texas?" John gave up on cleaning the cat and instead grabbed a dustpan and started getting the tea off the floor.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." More noises, the rustling of sheets and a closing of a door. "Texas is in two months. I'm in the bathroom of our hotel in Copenhagen, DENMARK, trying to talk softly so I don't wake my wife at what is now definitely two in the morning."

John got a sudden mental image of Paul in a hotel bed with Linda clinging to his side, naked. It didn't do anything to lighten his mood.

"Denmark. Well, that explains why your answering service was so shirty when I called half an hour ago."

"I can't believe they put you through to the hotel," Paul sighed.

"You should fire them. Absolutely fire them." John started wiping the counter, spilling more tea on the floor. "Oh, fuck."

"Is this about the cat, or something more sinister?" Paul asked. His voice was thick with sleep and overuse.

It finally dawned on John why he had made the call in the first place, why he had spent half an hour on hold with various irritated secretaries. "No, nothing of either sort. I just wanted to say..." He trailed off, not having practiced being nice to Paul for the better part of a decade. "That is, I heard about your dad." There was no response. _Grow a fucking pair, for God's sake_ , John told himself. He took a deep breath. Best to spit it out all at once. "I'm sorry, man. I know how much you loved each other."

Paul cleared his throat. "Yeah. I mean, thanks."

"He was a good guy," John said, wincing at how stupid he sounded. "I'm sorry, I should've come up with something better to say. It's just...I was on the phone with Ringo a while ago and he talked about it as if I should've known. And I should've known, Paul, why didn't I know?"

Another sigh. "It's not as if we've communicated a hell of a lot, lately, you and I."

John slumped to the floor and switched the phone to his other shoulder. The truth hurt. "I'm still sorry," he said quietly.

"And I'm still grateful." Even across three thousand miles of telephone wire, John could hear the ragged quality of Paul's breathing. "I'm always grateful to hear from you, but especially now."

As John opened his mouth to ask another question, he heard Paul put his hand over the mouthpiece. "I'm on the phone."

"At this hour?" Linda. "Paul, I need to pee."

John snickered. "Ah, a slice of married life."

"Shut it, Lennon." Paul uncovered the phone. "I'm letting Linda in and then I'm going on the balcony. Gimme a few seconds."

It occurred to John that he should pass along some sort of greeting to Linda, but he didn't want to press his luck. Instead, he went to check on Sean, who was sleeping soundly in his crib. Yoko was at a business meeting so John was alone with his son, his miracle baby who he loved more than his own life.

"Okay, I'm back," Paul said, breaking into John's train of thought.

"Just a moment, okay?" John tiptoed back to the kitchen. "Sorry. I was checking up on Sean and didn't want to wake him."

"How is he?" Paul asked, sounding as if he really wanted to know.

"He's amazing. Were you head over heels over your kids, too? Did you count their fingers over and over?"

"Still am, still do. All of the kids, all the time."

That was surely a dig about Julian, and on another day John might have taken the bait. Instead, he said, "I do that thing George's mum used to do, the kiss in the hand and 'keep it tight throughout the night.' Yoko thought I was mad, but I swear it helps him fall asleep."

Paul chuckled, low and warm. "I still do it to our Stella. I don't know why it works, but it does. I wish I'd thanked Louise for that." He sighed again. "Fucking cancer, eh? And you know George's dad has it now, too."

"No, I didn't," John said, not sure why he was shocked. He and George spoke even less than he and Paul, and much more acrimoniously when they did. "You're in touch with George?"

"Not often, but he phoned yesterday. Told me how much he'd miss Dad's custards, if you can believe it, then said we'd all meet again someday because death is just temporary, which I KNOW you will believe. He'd gotten the news from Ringo. And before you ask, Ringo told me he found out from Maureen because she still subscribes to the Liverpool Echo."

Frustrated, John banged his head against a cabinet. "Fuck, Paul, we couldn't have a more complicated communication system if we used fucking smoke signals."

"That's true." Paul hummed a fragment of a tune under his breath, which John knew was a sign that he was thinking. A moment later, Paul murmured, "I miss just being able to talk to you. To all of you. But mostly you."

 _GOD, ME TOO_ , John thought. "We should phone more often. And you should get your ass on a plane and come see me. Us. Me. Whoever."

He could imagine Paul's smile, the one that made his eyes crinkle at the corners and took ten years off of him. 

"Anyhow," John continued, "I really am sorry about your dad."

There was a moment in which John was sure he heard a sob, then Paul whispered, "Thank you, Johnny."

"You're welcome, Paulie." John swallowed against the rising lump in his throat. "Now get to bed, or you'll disappoint your adoring fans on the morrow."

"Can't have that. G'night, John, and thanks."

"Night, then." When John hung up the phone he realized that he'd twisted the cord into figure eights that would take Yoko half an hour to untangle, but he didn't care because he remembered what he'd wanted to say, what he would say the next time he talked to Paul.

"I owe your dad so much," John said to the ceiling, or to heaven. "Because he gave me you."

***  
END  
***


	4. 1995

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why does being an ex-Beatle have to be so complicated?"
> 
> George, Paul, and Ringo, in George's garden as the Anthology project concludes.

1995

***

For being outside on such a gorgeous day in his own garden, George was remarkably tense.

At least, Ringo was remarking on it.

"George, relax, would you? We've already done the hardest bit. This shouldn't have you as...weirded out as it does."

Ringo was right. The "hardest bit" of the whole Anthology ordeal had been months ago, when they were in the studio, listening to John's disembodied voice on the demo tapes. Ringo had broken down more than once before they even started talking about which songs to use and how to arrange them. Paul had been pale but stoic, the only sign of his distress showing when his voice utterly shattered when he demonstrated the middle eight he'd written for "Free as a Bird."

George had done what he always did: played his heart out while keeping his head down and his mouth shut.

Now that they were finished with the project except for this one last little jam session on the lawn with ukuleles. It should be a piece of cake. And yet George had been puttering around the kitchen all morning, shooing Olivia and Dhani away as he tidied the room that really didn't need any tidying at all. Ringo had openly laughed at him when he realized George had re-strung three different ukuleles - "even our Paul can only play one at a time, you know" - and that contributed to the inexplicable anxiety George was feeling.

Even now, stretched out on the lush spring grass, George felt as if something should happen, something extraordinary. He just couldn't put his finger on what.

He looked over at Ringo, who was sitting tailor-fashion, tipping his face toward the sun with a giddy grin that made him look like the youngest instead of the eldest. Then there was Paul, all smiles as usual, but with graying hair and that look of unfathomable sadness in his wide eyes when he thought no one was watching.

 _Oh, Paul_ , thought George, _they're always watching._

Only two cameras were on them, both at a respectful distance. An assistant came out with the three re-tuned ukuleles and fanned them out in front of Paul. Paul picked out a beauty and had his hand on a tuning peg to remove a string when he realized that it had been done for him already.

"Ta, George," Paul said, and for an instant he was the cool older kid on the bus, the boy as mad about guitars as George himself, not the aging hippie who would go to his grave burdened with so many regrets that he'd be reborn a dozen times before getting it right.

Maybe that's what was burdening George on this project, his own regret. Ringo had stayed friendly with everyone, Switzerland with long hair and peace signs. After years of painful (and yet, George had to admit, sometimes hilarious-in-a-schadenfreude-kind-of-way) public sniping, Paul and John had patched up the frayed cord of their friendship. But George had taken pains to alienate himself from Paul, possibly to keep from being hurt by him again, and his relationship with John had hit the skids over the "I, Me, Mine" book and had never recovered.

Would never recover, not in this life.

_Oh, John._

He heard Paul tuning up. Music. Yes. George began to strum a few simple chords. Paul joined in, looking at George's hands for guidance while Ringo tapped out patterns on the rough denim of his jeans. It felt so right, yet so weird, to be together after so many years but with John's absence darkening the edges of the sunlit sky.

"Just a couple more minutes, guys, then we're done," said an assistant director.

All three men looked at each other. 

Done.

Christ.

Paul's hands, usually so sure, skittered along the instrument and he stuttered to a stop. Ringo nudged his arm, but Paul just shook his head and laid the ukulele down carefully in the grass. "You play us one, George," he said softly, that LOOK in his eyes again, the one he tried to hide when he saw that the cameras were about to roll.

George started a gentle old song he'd heard his dad sing to his mum a lifetime ago. Paul smiled as he recognized the beginning of the old familiar tune, and chimed in with his gentlest voice. "Ain't she sweet?" he crooned.

Then there were harmonies, and Ringo stopped drumming on himself so he could listen. Paul flubbed a lyric, recovered with a self-deprecating grin, and ended on George's cue.

Ringo got sentimental on them when he thanked George for having them over, as if they had been a burden on him, and George lobbed a terrible joke that they didn't need to see one another for another forty years. He saw Ringo's shoulders slump a little, and the slight tremble of Paul's lips, and he hated himself.

Another flat tire on the Karmic wheel. Well done, Harrison.

The crew filed out quietly afterward, leaving the three of them alone. George heaved himself upright, dusted off his trousers, and sat down in the middle of the bench that had been behind them. He patted the empty spaces on either side.

Ringo, of course, came immediately and sat at George's right hand, leaning just a little against his arm. "You didn't really mean that forty years stuff, did you?"

"Nah." George's voice sounded rough even to his own ears. He cleared his throat. "Tried to lighten the mood."

"Failed," Ringo said, but his smile was warm and forgiving. 

Paul stood up slowly, picking up the ukulele and sitting with it on George's left. He began to remove the E-string. George stopped him with a gentle hand on Paul's wrist.

"Leave it," he whispered. Paul didn't answer, but his eyebrows went up. "For when you drop by," George continued.

Suddenly Paul's arms were around him, and Ringo's arms were around them both, and they were all holding onto one another for dear, dear life.

"Why does being an ex-Beatle have to be so complicated?" George murmured into Paul's hair.

"There's no such thing as an ex-Beatle, son," Ringo said in a suspiciously shaky tone. "Being a Beatle is something that sticks to you, like DNA."

"DNA doesn't--" George began, then he started to laugh, because a wise man had once said that if you love each other, it's all you need.

***  
END  
***


	5. 2002

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The shit we do is the shit we do. It's not who we are."
> 
> Ringo and Paul, after the Concert for George.

2002

***

Some would say that it was too cold a November night for a couple of aging men to be sitting on a London balcony with only a flickering candle for warmth.

Ringo couldn't have disagreed more. There was no place he'd rather be after singing his final goodbye to George. He was in the perfect spot, looking out over the city that had been his home during the crazed Beatle years, sitting with the only other man on the planet who could possibly understand how he felt at the end of the concert. "God, the energy, the LOVE in that place," Ringo mused, sipping his soda. "And Dhani, man, what a trouper!"

Paul nodded. He followed Ringo's line of sight for a moment then turned his gaze back to him. "But can you imagine how much George would've cringed, being the center of that much attention?"

"He'd have fucking hated it," Ringo chuckled. He could see George in his mind's eye, making himself as small as possible as if he could hide from the crowd, shaking his head and making sarcastic comments at the outpourings of affection. Yet George had, in his way, been the most affectionate person Ringo had ever known, and Ringo would never, ever, get over this loss.

Paul took a long swallow of his champagne. His face had a drawn, pinched quality that worried Ringo. Sure, Paul had a pregnant wife - whom Barbara had instantly disliked, which was censure enough for Ringo - and his kids were unhappy with this second marriage, but Ringo knew it wasn't his domestic problems that weighed on Paul tonight.

When Paul lowered his head and sighed, Ringo saw a few rose petals were still clinging to his hair. "Here, lean over a bit, you've still got flowers in your barnet." Ringo plucked the petals out and put them on the little table. "It's like George didn't want to let you go."

To his horror, Ringo saw tears start to track their way down Paul's face. "Shit, Paul, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"No, it's okay," Paul gasped, his voice coming out in little hiccups. "I haven't been able to cry over him much, but I need to, I really NEED to."

"Ah, Paul, c'mere." Ringo opened his arms and let Paul sag against him. He knew that Paul hadn't been able to weep about John for a year after his murder, and that Paul had been struggling valiantly to hold himself together during all the rehearsals and hubbub surrounding the concert for George.

"I did love him, I always loved him, ever since we were kids together," Paul sobbed into Ringo's shoulder. "But I did such shitty things to him, to you, to John, and I didn't mean them, I was scared about losing the band and so I just started lashing out..."

"Ssh, ssh, I know. We all knew." Ringo patted Paul awkwardly on the back. "The shit we do is just the shit we do. It's not who we are. George sued me once, y'know, and I still loved HIM, and I know he loved all of us." That thought brought tears to Ringo's own eyes, which he didn't bother to wipe away. The art of existing became less unbearable when he allowed himself the luxury of expressing his grief, still scalpel-sharp a year after George had left this life. "Don't dwell on anything but the love. Remember all the times lately where you'd drop in at his house, and the two of you would grab ukuleles and sing all night? He loved when you did that, he told me so. He loved YOU, and he forgave you even when you couldn't forgive yourself. I promise he did, Paul. I promise."

A gust of winter wind blew across the balcony, scattering the rose petals that Ringo had placed on the table. He pulled away from Paul long enough to retrieve two of them. He held one out to Paul, whose fingers trembled as he touched it.

Ringo held the petal to his lips, then put it into the candle's flame. He looked over at Paul as the petal sizzled to ash. Paul mirrored Ringo's gesture but lingered over the flame as if reluctant to let go of this final connection to George. Ringo smelled the singing flesh and grasped Paul's hand, pulling it to safety and examining each finger for possible damage.

"Happens all the time," Paul said, unconcerned. "It's the calluses - I can't feel much on my fingertips."

"All the same, mate, that's not too bright an idea." Ringo relaxed his grip on Paul's hand and was pleasantly surprised that Paul didn't pull away.

Paul's eyes, dark and heavy, were focused on their joined hands. "Funny, I'd known George over fifty years but apart from bandaging his fingers when he practiced too long, I never really TOUCHED him until just that last day when I held his hand."

Ringo had heard the story before but he knew that Paul needed to tell it again.

"And he held mine," Paul continued, "and I could feel how weak he was, and oh GOD his hands were cold, they were so fucking cold..." Paul ran his thumb across the back of Ringo's hand. "He said he forgave me, and he asked my forgiveness, too, then we just talked about Liverpool and meeting John and stealing you away from Rory, and all the good parts of the madness." Paul's eyes met Ringo's, begging for absolution. "And there were good parts, weren't there?"

Not trusting his voice, Ringo just nodded and squeezed Paul's hand tightly. Ringo hated crying, hated that his nose was going red from tears and cold, but he made no move to go indoors or even to distance himself from Paul. It was just such a comfort to have this moment, this contact, painful though the reason was.

After a few minutes of silent contemplation, Paul managed a wobbly smile. "Look at us, crying like a pair of teenaged girls."

Ringo snorted a laugh. "Can you imagine what John would say if he could see us now?"

"'Christ, Macca, you're worse than the sodding fans.'" Paul mimicked John in a reedy voice that sent chills of memory up Ringo's spine even as it made him laugh from the heart.

"Very good impression, that," Ringo said, squeezing Paul's hand again. "But seriously, we've got to stop meeting like this."

Paul's face drained of color.

"What?" Ringo asked.

Paul opened his mouth but nothing came out. He was shaking, not with cold but with fear.

"We won't meet like this again," Paul said after taking a long, ragged breath, "because the next time a Beatle dies, it'll be you or me."

Fuck.

Desperate to re-route this conversation, Ringo quickly waggled his eyebrows and countered with, "Well, I sure hope it's you."

He expected a good-natured argument, but Paul simply tilted his head and looked at Ringo as if memorizing him. "I hope so, too," Paul whispered as he started to rock back and forth in the chair, his exhausted voice tearing through the cold night air. "I don't want to be...I CAN'T be the last one!" Just as Ringo was certain that his heart couldn't take any more, Paul spoke again, softly, pleading. "Ritchie, please, don't leave me all alone."

That plea broke the last strand of Ringo's reserve. He jumped out of his chair and knelt in front of Paul, taking Paul's trembling hands between his own and willing them to become strong and capable again. "It's okay," he murmured as he ran his thumbs over the fragile skin of Paul's wrists. "I won't leave you, Paulie," he murmured.

Paul looked at him, color returning to his pale face. "You'd better not," he said half-jokingly even though his voice was thick with tears. "'Cause if you leave me behind with Yoko, I swear to God I'll fucking end you." 

There, that was Paul coming back to life. Ringo stood, his cold joints protesting loudly, and tugged Paul to his feet. He planned to make a big pot of tea to warm them up and he knew Barbara would insist that Paul stay the night. In the morning they would hug goodbye, and try not to think of what it would be like to be the Last Beatle.

***  
END  
***


	6. 2030

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was holding his dignity together with the finest of threads, and the sight of the inevitable "Moptop Mourns!" and "And Then There Was One!" headlines would have snapped it like a soap bubble.
> 
> Paul, who only thinks he's alone.

2030

***

"I'm old, not fucking deaf," Paul barked to the people who were whispering outside the door of his New Orleans hotel room. Children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, all performing variations on the same theme: _Is it safe to leave him on his own, you know, after today_?

Paul considered flinging the door open and telling his nearest and dearest to fuck the hell off, but moving from his comfortable chair was simply not going to happen. Not after today.

After today.

What a fucking, fucking awful bugger of a day.

The day that marked the last time a Beatle would play at another Beatle's funeral.

Ringo had died, unexpectedly but peacefully, in his sleep just a few days after his lavish 90th birthday party. Unlike John's and George's departures, which had been followed by quick cremations and private dispersals of their ashes, Ringo's was a far more showmanlike exit from this life. When Paul had first heard that Ringo was to have a full-on New Orleans jazz funeral with a service at the St. Louis Cathedral, his only thought was that Ringo would be sorry to miss the spectacle.

All along the streets people had lined up to say their farewells, to offer signs of peace and love, peace and love, as the black-clad band played "Just a Closer Walk With Thee" and "Didn't He Ramble" in lush, mournful harmonies. It had always been music that left the greatest imprint on Paul's soul, and today, with the last of his Beatle companions gone, music was all that gave him the courage to keep looking out of the limousine window and wave solemnly at the thousands of fans standing in the muggy July heat. 

Paul had come close to tears twice: once as he got out of the limousine and bent over to accept a single red rose from a tiny girl whose spun-gold curls reminded him of Linda, and again when he stopped to pay his respects at Ringo's polished mahogany coffin.

"You promised not to do this to me," he had whispered as he patted Ringo's cold, stiff hand, "but I love you anyway."

Advancing age had long since robbed Paul's voice of sweetness but not of pathos, and he had gratefully accepted Barbara's invitation to sing "Let it Be" at the end of Ringo's service. Against the advice of his doctors, his family, and pretty much everyone in the world who had seen his arthritis-afflicted hands, he had given the grand piano his all. Every stroke of his gnarled fingers on the keyboard had sent spikes of pain through his entire body. Even so, he had been determined to do this last ritual, no matter what it did to his aching bones for the rest of the day.

This fucking, fucking awful shitfest of a day.

Now Ringo's body was on a plane back to England, and Paul was - finally - alone in his hotel room, longing for peace and quiet after the agonizing stress of the past week. 

The room was silent where normally music or news would be playing. Paul had diligently avoided reading or watching any broadcasts since hearing of Ringo's death. He was holding his dignity together with the finest of threads, and the sight of the inevitable "Moptop Mourns!" and "And Then There Was One!" headlines would have snapped it like a soap bubble. As for hearing the Beatles songs that were surely crowding the airwaves, Paul knew that he would shatter into a million pieces before the middle eight.

In speaking of Ringo, Paul had chosen his words carefully and granted interviews only to a few trusted journalists. To this day (this godawful shitbucket of a day), fifty years after John's murder, Paul still feared being cornered in a moment of grief and sleeplessness and saying "the wrong thing" about a Beatle's passing.

Although that wouldn't be an issue anymore.

Well, fuck.

The pain, which had started in his hands and had been radiating all the way to his shoulders, was now in his back. His body finally, finally hurt more than his heart. With a heavy sigh, Paul worked his way out of the chair and began rummaging around in his flight bag for the medication that did precious little to comfort him anymore. The bottle was nowhere to be found.

Rolling his eyes, Paul shuffled to the door and flung it open to see who was sitting on Dad Guard. Sure enough, it was Mary. She looked up and gave her father a guilty little smile.

"My pills," Paul said. "They're not in my bag."

"I have them," Mary said softly. She pulled the bottle out of her handbag and dispensed a single pill into her father's palm.

He chuckled. "That's just to give me something to do while I wait to pass out from the pain." Mary dropped a second pill in his hand. "I didn't sleep last night and I'm too knackered to keep getting up every four hours. Just give me the bottle."

"Dad..."

"Mary..."

With a shaking hand, Mary passed him the bottle, then gazed at him with such terror in her dark eyes that Paul's next breath was ragged.

So, the McCartney brood thought he was planning to off himself.

"No, no," Paul whispered. "Mary, love, I'm not gonna..."

She launched herself into his arms and held him tightly around the waist. Paul stroked her long gray hair, breathing in the scent of his first-born the way he had when she was a baby.

"I didn't mean to scare you," Paul said as he lifted Mary's chin and looked deep into her eyes. "Your old Dad's body is hurting, that's all. I promise."

Mary nodded. She dropped a kiss on the back of Paul's hand, then caught herself mid-yawn. "I'm going to bed, then," she murmured.

"Good night, sweetie."

"Good night." Mary started to walk down the hall, then turned around again. "I'll see you in the morning, Daddy."

He smiled at her, understanding that he was making a vow to be there in the morning. "Absolutely."

After a searching gaze, Mary smiled back and went to her own room a few doors down. Paul swallowed his two pills dry, coughing slightly as the rough surface abraded his tired throat, then closed his door and went back to the big chair to rest.

He thought about checking his phone, but he knew that there would be a hundred "Are you okay" messages that he didn't trust himself to answer without a hefty dose of John's razor-sharp sarcasm.

Oh, Johnny.

He made a mental note to call Olivia in the morning. Years ago he had told her she was the only "Beatle Widow" he felt close to, and she had countered that the choice between her and Yoko surely couldn't have been all that hard. She had learned a lot from George, about patience and about facing the world with humor.

Oh, George, my little brother.

And poor Barbara, who had seen Ringo through thick and thin and loved him every minute of it, Paul would talk to her tomorrow as well. She had been composed and quiet at the service today, but Paul knew all too well the rush of fresh grief that came once the flurry of ceremonies was completed. Despite many rocky moments, Barbara had loved Ringo, had grounded him and helped him stay the cheerful, loving lad that the whole world was mourning.

Oh, Ritchie.

Paul wiped away a stray tear and leaned back in his chair, "closing his eyes for a minute" as he often did these days. The metallic air conditioner noises were lulling him into a doze when he suddenly recognized familiar scents that were so out of place here and now.

Sweet, heady pot.  
Sandalwood and garden soil.  
Expensive cologne and green vegetables.

His eyelids fluttered, only to be kept shut by a hummingbird wing of a touch. "Don't open your eyes, Paul, or we'll have to go," said the deep growl he'd heard just a few weeks before. Ringo. "We knew you'd be lonely, so we just wanted to let you know that we'll be waiting for you."

"We'll watch out for you, the same way you've always done for us and ours," George murmured, and Paul could feel George's feather-light fingers in his hair. 

Senses alight, Paul tried to find John. At first there was nothing, then Paul felt a tiny, cool diamond of a spark on his wrist where an ethereal tear had fallen.

"Ah, Paulie, your poor hands," John lamented. 

Even with his eyes closed Paul could visualize John's slim, strong, perfect hands. He winced at the idea of his misshapen talons alongside those elegant fingers.

"It'll be okay, you'll see. God is everywhere, Paul, and there's so much love. You'll be whole again when you're with us." George's voice was mild and encouraging.

Paul sighed and let himself sag deeper into the chair. "I want to go with you."

"No, you don't really, not yet," John said gently. "You're just tired. We should let you rest."

"But you'll come back? Sometimes?"

"Don't you know?" George asked, leaning so close that Paul could feel a ghostly hint of breath on his face. "We never left."

Paul nodded, his head heavy with the need to sleep. There was so much to say, but he was so tired, and he felt so protected and loved, that he could only smile and hope that his friends knew how deeply he felt for them.

Ringo pulled away, then George, but John lingered. Paul felt a warm sweetness brush across his palm, then his fingers were gently shaped into a firm grasp.

"Keep it tight throughout the night," John said, and Paul could hear the emotion behind the familiar words as he drifted, at long last, into painless sleep.

***  
END  
***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read this. While it was written in a dark place, there is eternal hope to find the light.


End file.
